


snuffed happiness

by smudgythoughts



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s07e01 Dragonstone, F/F, Sad Ending, there's NO jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-12 23:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11747322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgythoughts/pseuds/smudgythoughts
Summary: Sansa realizes what she feels toward Jon is jealousy. Jealousy that he's the King in the North, while she's been cast away like an unwanted doll.At the same time, she receives news of the death of Margaery Tyrell, and reflects on their relationship and what they could have been.





	snuffed happiness

**Author's Note:**

> So... has Sansa's learned of Margaery's death yet??? Where is my footage of Sansa crying over her gal pal???

Sansa received the news shortly after they’d retaken Winterfell.

She and Jon were standing in the cold crypts under the castle, staring silently at the newly sculpted statue of Ned Stark. It was a bit off. His nose was too small, face too shapely, and the sharp lines of his old age were nonexistent. But he was home, finally, lying where he had all the right to be.

Sansa should’ve been happy. They had defeated the Boltons, gotten back Winterfell, and she had a throne next to her half-brother to match. But she also had a big empty bed. Something felt _missing_ , and not the contrast drumming ache in her heart for her dead siblings Robb and Rickon, but a softer pain, like her mother Catelyn sometimes spoke of whenever Ned was away during a border scrimmage or political matter.

She shook away her thoughts, looking over at her half-brother Jon Snow. No, now he was Jon _Stark_. The name still didn’t seem to fit.

It was never her and Jon. It was always Ned and Jon, her father telling Jon he was proud of him. But now Ned was dead, beheaded while she watched. It was always Robb and Jon, going off and hunting together if Catelyn allowed it. But now Robb was dead, from a quick slash to the throat. Theon and Jon, a sort of brotherly rivalry between the two of them, something Sana never had with anyone. But now Theon had betrayed the Starks, leaving a trail of death and remorse behind him.

Arya and Jon, he encouraging her rebellious phases, she making him feel like less of an outsider. When Arya was still small enough, he would lift her up onto his shoulders, both of them smiling and laughing all the while. But now Arya was dead, probably lying in a cold ditch somewhere.

Sansa was the only thing Jon had left. Now wasn’t that mightily ironic.

In her head, she always used to just call him ‘ _Bastard_.’ He was born of a mistake, not deserving of her attention. She would always give him the cold shoulder, influenced by Catelyn, and Jon, in turn, learned to do the same.

And yet that didn’t stop her from being jealous of him. She was never anyone’s favorite, never formed the deep bonds with other people that he did. She was just a little girl with stupid dreams, absolutely forgettable. The jealously didn’t go away with time. _He_ was named to King in the North, not her. _He_ was cheered on by the houses of the North and hailed as a hero, despite the fact that _Sansa_ had been the one to gather the Vale’s army and save his ass.

Jon shifted beside her, speaking through the suffocating silence, “Did he suffer?” His gaze, which had so far been trained on the statue, flickered over to her.

Sansa looked away, suddenly guilty about her less-than nice thoughts about him. Jon was so _pure_ , so good and kind and just, a stark contrast to her selfishness — how could she think of hating him? He was here, asking about her dead father — who he resembled, in more ways than one — and all she could think about was that people liked him more than her?

She thought about Ned Stark, a sword coming down to slice his head off, Joffrey next to her laughing in victory. Ned didn’t care about dying. Even though the sword might’ve been quick, he was more hurt knowing Sansa had been there to witness it. That his _daughter_ had watched him die.

“No,” Sansa lied. And Jon, that fool, believed her. Or maybe it was only because he _wanted_ to believe her.

Thankfully, the sound of heavy footsteps stopped her from having to say any more, and they both turned around to the sight of an old man hurrying toward them. He was the man taking the place of a maester.

“ _Here_ you are. There’s been a raven from our allies at King’s Landing,” he said, chest heaving and face wet with sweat, looking like he’d run from the South to here.

“Well, what is it?” Sansa asked.

The man didn’t answer, looking over to Jon, clearly asking for his permission to share the message in front of her. Sansa took a deep breath, trying to tamper down her annoyance. She was used to it by now.

Jon nodded, and the man held out the scroll.

Her half-brother took it from him gingerly, and the maester gave a small nod before walking away. This footsteps echoed down the long hallway. Jon’s eyes scanned the note, his eyebrows furrowed, frown growing by the second.

“What is it?” Sansa asked, trying not to sound too demanding.

“Cersei has upped her game,” Jon finally answered, tone gruff. “She attacked people with wildfire, killing the Tyrells and someone named the High Sparrow, among others. It seems we now have a Mad Queen on our hands.”

Sansa’s heart dropped in her chest. “T-the Tyrells?”

“Yes. It’s a shame, they could have been good allies.”

“ _All_ of them?” She asked, her bottom lip wobbling, tears threatening to spill out, but she pushed them down. The last thing she wanted to seem was weak. A year ago, though, she would’ve let herself cry. She had been a different person then.

Now Jon was looking at her, _really_ looking at her. There was confusion written in the lines of his face. “All except Olenna Tyrell. Her granddaughter Margaery was your… friend, right?”

 _Friend_. That was barely scraping the surface. Margaery was the only person at King’s Landing that had welcomed her with open arms, the only person Sansa had felt safe enough with to not guard her tongue around. The only person Sansa felt comfortable enough to smile or laugh around, to let down her wall for a few seconds.

Sansa’s time at King’s Landing had been _miserable_ , but Margaery’s companionship made it a tiny bit brighter.

There was a small, nagging, part of her brain that said they were _more_ than just friends. Margaery had called them sisters, but that label didn’t quite fit either. Sometimes Sansa’s eyes lingered too long on Margaery’s lips, or her breath caught when Margaery smiled, or Sansa was too focused on how _right_ Margaery’s hand felt in hers.

It didn’t smoke out because of lack of interest — Margaery’s lingering glances, and flirtatious smile when she said “some women like pretty _girls_ ” definitely showed interest — but because of circumstances.

It ended the night of Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding. The infamous feast. Sansa equal parts relieved and scared — she didn’t have to marry that _monster_ , but Margaery did, and Sansa had been fearful of what Joffrey would do to her friend.

It seemed her fears were misplaced. Joffrey ended up poisoned, choking and clawing at his own throat. Sansa was forced to run away, without any sort of goodbye to Margaery. She almost wished Joffrey was still alive, if it meant she could see Margaery one last time.

If only circumstances were different. Perhaps this whole mess could have been avoided, if her father had decided to pass on becoming the Hand of the King, and Sansa had never been engaged to Joffrey. She and Margaery could have simply met as two princesses — perhaps Sansa was set to marry Margaery’s brother Loras, but instead took an interest in his sister. They could have picnics in the Winterfell Godswood, showering each other in autumn leaves and soft kisses. Or maybe Sansa managed to escape away to Highgarden, gentle touches stolen in the dark of night. She could imagine a thousand different futures where they ended up happy, and _together_.

But instead Sansa lived in this one. Where Margaery was dead as a doornail, only smoke and ashes and charred bone, and Sansa _never told her_ , she never got to feel the soft press of Margaery’s lips against her own, she never whispered a special three words against Margaery's flushed skin, and would regret it until her dying day.

They were only an almost. A not quite. A very nearly. A might’ve been. Life wasn’t — as Sansa had learned the hard way — a fairy tale, with heroic knights with unshakable honor rescuing dainty little princesses and having a happy ending. Her time with Joffrey and Ramsay Snow had certainly taught her that. Life was _crap_ , with no rhyme or reason. Terrible, sad, things just _happened_ , and there was nothing Sansa could do about it. Except move on, and try to forget about about the beautiful fair-skinned woman with glossy brown curls and a smile as bright as the sun. Even though forgetting seemed impossible.

“Are you okay?” Jon asked through the thick layer of silence.

“Yes,” Sansa said quickly, though they both knew it was a lie. “Now, don’t you have a council meeting to get to?”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get on that,” Jon said, even though they both knew that he didn’t have any meetings until later on in the week. Sansa gave him a grateful smile, one that he returned, before he turned around and walked away, leaving Sansa with her thoughts. Jon _Stark_. Maybe it was starting to fit.

Sansa let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Then she felt down onto her knees and cried, the tears falling like hail in a thunderstorm. She didn’t stop until her voice ran hoarse, and her face was painted with wet tears.

And a few days later, when Littlefinger stridded up to her and asked “what do you want that you do not have?”, Sansa told him off snarkily, but only thought of sunny afternoons, and lemon cakes, and roses plucked with deft fingers, and a star burned out far too soon.


End file.
